Content

But now that you have been set free from sin and have become slaves of God, the benefit you reap leads to holiness, and the result is eternal life. For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 6:22-23)

This morning in my 3:16 class, sometime during in our discussion of Psalm 23, somebody asked an honest question: "What does it mean to be content? I mean, how can you remain content and yet see all the injustice in the world? Is there a place for "righteous anger" in the heart of a contented person?"

Everyone was quiet for a few moments. That's one thing I love about this class: no one feels compelled to dive in and talk, just to fill the silent spaces. A couple of people finally spoke up. After another silence, I spoke up as well.

I don't remember what I said exactly, but it was something like this: "I think contentment is what happens when you realize you don't have to justify yourself. You don't have to prove yourself. You can--and should--still have righteous anger at injustice, and fight for justice. But the contentment is within you, in knowing that you've already been justified."

I was remembering something I'd heard in a Tim Keller sermon, a quote from After the Fall, an Arthur Miller play. I told them about the Miller quote, and I think that helped shed light on what I was thinking. Here it is below. The speaker is a lawyer, and this is close to the very beginning of the play:

You know, more and more I think that for many years I looked at life like a case at law, a series of proofs. When you're young you prove how brave you are, or smart; then what a good lover; then, a good father; finally how wise, or powerful or what-the–hell-ever. But underlying it all, I see now, there was a presumption. That I was moving on an upward path toward some elevation, where—God knows what—I would be justified, or even condemned—a verdict anyway. I think now that my disaster really began when I looked up one day—and the bench was empty. No judge in sight. And all that remained was the endless argument with oneself—this pointless litigation of existence before an empty bench.

He goes on to say that the result of this is despair; you found the meaning in the "proofs," you found the meaning in looking ahead to being somehow "justified," you looked ahead to arguing your case, but then you realized that there is no judge and no jury. No meaning.

Of course, there IS a judge. There IS an accuser, and we have, every last one of us, been found guilty. Every last one of us deserves death. But Jesus Christ stepped into our place, took on our guilt, and the verdict, and the punishment himself. And so we are free of that courtroom; we are free. And THAT is where the contentment lies; no longer do we need to strive to prove ourselves innocent, worthy, or justified. We're both guilty and unworthy, we failed the test miserably and deserve the consequences ... yet through faith Christ has made us spotless, worthy, and justified in God's eyes.

THAT is the good news, y'all. We can rest content. It doesn't all end there; we still live in an unjust and broken world, and we need to have eyes open to the suffering and injustice, and we need to comfort liberally, love liberally, and, yes, fight for justice where it is lacking. But we can rest content in knowing that the ultimate, cosmic justice was served almost 2,000 years ago on a cross. We have been justified by faith. We are free.

The Ruthinator, resting content in who she is in Christ.